cleverly she dealt with the examining magistrate when he asked her if there was any mystery in her husband’s past life. ‘Nothing so romantic, I am sure, M. le juge.’ It was perfect, the indulgent tone, the soupçon of sad mockery. At once M. Hautet felt himself foolish and melodramatic. Yes, she is a great woman! If she loved a criminal, she loved him royally!”
Poirot lost himself in contemplation.
“One thing more, Poirot, what about the piece of lead piping?”
“You do not see? To disfigure the victim’s face so that it would be unrecognizable. It was that which first set me on the right track. And that imbecile of a Giraud, swarming all over it to look for match ends! Did I not tell you that a clue of two feet long was quite as good as a clue of two inches?”
“Well, Giraud will sing small now,” I observed hastily, to lead the conversation away from my own shortcomings.
“As I said before, will he? If he has arrived at the right person by the wrong method, he will not permit that to worry him.”
“But surely—” I paused as I saw the new trend of things.
“You see, Hastings, we must now start again. Who killed M. Renauld? Some one who was near the Villa just before twelve o’clock that night, some one who would benefit by his death—the description fits Jack Renauld only too well. The crime need not have been premeditated. And then the dagger!”
I started, I had not realized that point.
“Of course,” I said. “The second dagger we found in the tramp was Mrs. Renauld’s. There were two, then.”
“Certainly, and, since they were duplicates, it stands to reason that Jack Renauld was the owner. But that would not trouble me so much. In fact I have a little idea as to that. No, the worst indictment against him is again psychological—heredity, mon ami, heredity! Like father, like son—Jack Renauld, when all is said or
